


I've lived in this place and I know all the faces

by tigriswolf



Series: comment_fic drabbles [91]
Category: Political Animals
Genre: Desperation, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Gen, Growing Up, M/M, Mild Language, Piano, Resolution, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, TJ says 'fuck' a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:37:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigriswolf/pseuds/tigriswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I've lived in this place and I know all the faces</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Each one is different but they're always the same</i>
  <br/>
  <i>They mean me no harm but it's time that I face it</i>
  <br/>
  <i>They'll never allow me to change</i>
  <br/>
  <i>But I never dreamed home would end up where I don't belong<i></i></i>
  <br/>
  <i>I'm movin' on</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I've lived in this place and I know all the faces

**Author's Note:**

> Title: I've lived in this place and I know all the faces  
> Disclaimer: not my characters; title from “I’m Movin’ On” by Rascal Flatts.  
> Warnings: drug addiction/abuse; mentions of failed suicide attempts; mild language  
> Pairings: mentions of TJ/Sean Reeves  
> Rating: PG  
> Wordcount: 645  
> Point of view: third  
> Prompt: Political Animals, TJ, Scared and alone

He's not - it's not like he doesn't think about being the _good son_ , and he knows he could be _doing something_ , and he does, he really fucking does miss the piano sometimes, and how it felt to make beautiful music and know it was coming from somewhere inside him, somewhere pure, somewhere golden - 

His father was President of the United States. His mother is the most powerful woman in the world, and pretty soon she'll be the most powerful _person_ , full-stop. His brother will probably one day be a POTUS, too, and he already gets shit done. 

But TJ – Thomas, Tommy, the fuck-up black-sheep, he’s nothing. He fucks up and he’s fucked up, and he’s never dreamed as big as his family. 

He plays the piano sometimes, and misses the days before the White House. He was a governor’s son, then, but no one cares about a governor’s children. Back then, no one knew his name. 

He’d like to get clean, really he would. He’d like to make promises and know he could keep them, know his family trusted him. He’d like to turn to his brother and let Dougie handle all his shit, too, but he can’t – he can’t keep doing that to his brother. Dougie would die still trying to take care of TJ, and if either of them should die, it’s TJ.

Fuck, but TJ misses Sean so much it burns. Twice he tried to kill himself because of that man, because he knew he wasn’t good enough for Sean, wasn’t wholesome enough, wasn’t fucking _female_ enough. He’d been so happy. The world had been so bright, brighter than any coke ever made it. 

He plays the piano in his mother’s house, eighteen days clean ( _again_ ) and he wants to let his mother hold him, let his brother hold him, even curl up in his dad’s arms or with Grandma on the couch – but he’s fucked up too much. They don’t trust him, and he doesn’t trust himself, and if he stays in this fucking city, he’ll never be able to be anyone else. 

He daydreams about being the good son, the bright one, responsible and respectable, _trusted_. He wants to be trusted. Trustworthy. 

His hands tremble on the keys, but the music never wavers. 

TJ closes his eyes and lets the music take him where it wants, and it wells up inside him, beautiful and golden, like everything he’s not anymore.

He can’t – he wants to fall into someone’s arms and know everything will be okay. 

He can’t stay in DC anymore. 

Mom’s about to run for president again, and TJ just _can’t_ \- 

TJ can’t. 

He wants to live, and he can’t do that here, where everyone’s watching and waiting for his next fuck-up. 

He doesn’t know how to say goodbye, and if he just vanishes Mom will tear apart the world looking, and it’ll hurt them all, he knows that, but it’ll hurt him more. A good hurt, maybe. A clean hurt. The ache that means healing.

His fingers still and the music stops and if he’s going to do this, he’s got to do it now. 

“Deep breath, Tommy,” he whispers to that kid in the governor’s mansion, back when he was still young enough to be golden. 

He opens his eyes, pushes back the bench, and stands. 

He’ll never be the good son if he stays here. He’ll never get clean, he’ll never move on, he’ll never be happy in this fucking _fishbowl_ of a town where everyone knows his name, and everyone knows every move he makes. 

TJ doesn’t know how to say goodbye, but he walks away from the piano and knows that he has to. Knows that he will. 

He holds his head high and goes to the stairs, because Mom and Grandma are home, and he has to say goodbye.


End file.
